


anatomy

by Femeris



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Body Horror, Coming Out, Forest Sex, Found Family, Friendship, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Personal Growth, Self-Hatred, This fic is NOT all lower case, Toxic Relationships, Toxic familial relationships, Werewolf Transformation, in case that turns you off, mental health, mentions of suicidal ideation, soft, undefined relationships, wolfstar
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:08:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29886426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Femeris/pseuds/Femeris
Summary: here lies remus lupin.
Relationships: James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Kudos: 16





	anatomy

**_november_**

“Moony.” 

He opens his eyes. 

Wide grey ones stare back. 

“Are you okay?” 

Remus blinks. He has to think about the answer. His joints are aching, pressing together like tectonic plates, tensing to push through his skin. If only they would; release this damned pressure. A pounding between his eyes like the steady _drip, drip, drip_ of a leaky bathroom faucet. Hot sweat gathers into tiny beads of moisture on his beck, rolling down his spine like the scraping of a sharp fingernail. All of it is familiar. All of it is known. Like the tone of your parent’s voice when they’re upset with you. Like stubbing your toe. 

So Remus wets his lips instead of responding. 

A line appears between grey eyes. 

And then Sirius moves. 

Remus has to close his eyes against the waves of turbulence watching the motion sends him, setting his stomach aroil with nausea. 

“Moony,” Padfoot says again, gentle as anything, but it’s a gavel against his temple. 

Gentle pressure settles on his shoulders, like the phantom hands you fantasize before you’ve ever been held. 

“What do you need?” Sirius whispers. “What can I do?” 

Remus’ lips part, but no words leave his mouth. _i wish you could do anything_. 

“Nothing,” he finally replies on an exhale. 

The pressure on his shoulders—Sirius’ hands—remains, as does the close presence of him, standing right in front of where Remus sits. Remus cracks his eyes open again to see the line between Sirius’ eyes has deepened. 

“I want to help,” Sirius says, voice still pitched low and quiet. Funeral tones. _here lies remus lupin._

Remus closes his eyes so that he can speak. 

“I know,” he says. 

He does know. 

He knows that Sirius has an ache, too. Something in the roots of his molars, the tips of his fingers, the core of his stomach where it weighs so heavy. He needs to help. Needs to fix like he needs to breathe. Needs to fix, and relieve, and carry so that he _can_ breathe. 

Remus musters up his strength in preparation for a sentence. He wants to say so much more...He _would_ want to say so much more. If everything were different, and not like this. 

“There’s nothing you can do.” 

“Bullshit,” Sirius mutters softly. 

And then Remus feels him shifting onto the bed, trying not to jostle him too much, kneeling behind him. 

Remus grits his teeth. He doesn’t like Sirius behind him. Doesn’t like the thought that if he opens his eyes, he won’t see wide grey ones. 

But he doesn’t move. And the gentle pressure is still on his shoulders. 

Sirius’ hands move, then. They drag pressure up the curve of his shoulders and neck, into his scalp where his fingers split and massage fingerprints into Remus’ hair. 

Remus exhales slowly, making an effort to relax his jaw. 

Sirius stays silent. His hands move constantly, pressure increasing and decreasing in gradually rising and falling waves. Every bit of flesh caught under Sirius’ ministrations turns to molten silk, the tension of fit-to-bursting tendons and muscles and cells soothed beneath the onslaught of gentle touches. 

_is this really all it takes?_

The thought rolls drily across remus’ mind, stitching a furrow into his brow for the first time in what Remus is only aware of having been _a while_. 

Then Sirius’ fingers are brushing up the bridge of his nose, smoothing out the furrow at the top of it with fast, waterwheel-like motions, gentle as feathers batting against air. 

Remus falls back under the spell, then, leaning his skull back against Sirius’ collarbone. 

He wonders, eventually, where Sirius learned his magic. What spellbook of grand witch or wizard taught him how to press calm into someone else’s skin? Remus has never associated Sirius’ magic with _calm_ before. Sirius is frenetic energy, shooting sparks of lightning up his spine, down to the tips of curling toes, popping for the excitement of this moment and the next and the next and the next rolling over each other like as many bursts of a persistent battering ram. 

This feels…

Sirius presses his thumbs into wonderful points on either side of Remus’ neck, and begins moving them in small circles, pushing in deeper and harder every turn. 

This feels insistent and gentle, demanding and quiet at once. Like putting out a fire until only embers remain, and stopping to watch them smolder and crack. Crack Remus does—several times. His bones pop. Shoulders and spine and neck and jaw. 

Slowly at first, then all at once it comes to a stop before Remus is really ready to say goodbye. 

He’s left bereft in what feels like floating in a bottomless pool for the seconds that go by without Sirius touching him. And then his clever fingers curl once more around his biceps, and Remus is gathered back into his body the same way you gather laundry into your arms to take to the basket. Sirius kisses the back of his head, then pulls him back against him. Remus falls, trusting, like a paper doll, and earns another press of Sirius’ mouth to his temple. 

“Moony?” 

“ _Hm_ ,” is the only noise he can conjure. 

“Did it help?” 

Something else cracks, but it isn’t a joint. Remus forces loose-leadened limbs into motion, finding the hands that tore into the barbed teeth tearing into him. Remus curls his hands around Sirius’ like they’re something precious and small and gold and furry and breathing and breakable. Lips press to his face again, as fingers twine with his. 

He’s vaguely aware of being gentled into laying down, something his head and stomach would not allow an hour ago. There is little protest from either now. His eyes fall shut, and this time it’s not to block the too-bright, too-loud, too-much world out. He’s simply falling asleep. 

Wakefulness slips into him slowly. 

The _drip, drip, drip_ in his head is subdued, like he’d left the room with the leaky faucet. 

It’s dark, but it’s morning. He can tell because the other boys are awake. He can hear them. 

Blinking his eyes open offers him the answer to the mystery. The curtains around his bed are pulled shut. 

Filling his lungs with air and shifting carefully, he finds himself sprawled back across Sirius’ front, head laid back against his chest. 

Remus cranes his neck up, catching a glimpse of Sirius propped somewhat against Remus’ pillows, hair strewn across his face like spilled ink. One of his hands is clutched in Remus’, and braced against Remus’ own chest. His other hand is thrown up above his head, fingers loosely curled. 

It occurs to Remus that if the other boys are awake, it means they should be too. 

But Remus and Sirius are cocooned within the nest of bedding and comfort that only hours of being molded together in sleep earns. A position never to be recreated the same way. His head is lifted and lowered gently as Sirius breathes. He could live here. 

But he knows he won’t be able to attend classes tomorrow, maybe the day after as well, depending on the mercifulness of the moon tonight. 

So, he shifts, drawing a hand up Sirius’ arm and down again. 

“ _Hm_ …” 

Remus stops when the small noise leaves Sirius’ throat. He watches him twitch, the muscles in his face tensing and relaxing. He’s a painting. 

No. 

He’s not. 

He’s a living thing. The living thing they paint paintings for. 

And that’s so much worse. 

When Remus sits up, the thumping in his head resumes. He takes a moment to press his fingers to his closed eyes and try to suppress the ache into something chewable so he can swallow it down. When he finally opens his eyes again and looks back down to Sirius, he is unsurprised to find him still unapologetically asleep. 

He rocks his arm again, a little more insistently. 

“ _Moony_ …” Sirius mumbles, the word rolling underneath his tongue. Sirius shifts again, this time turning onto his side, rubbing closed fists into his eyes, trying to drag himself out of sleep. 

Remus watches him rub at his face, tug fingers through his hair, and finally turn again onto his back, blinding wide grey eyes up at Remus. 

“Hey,” he says. 

Remus makes an acknowledging sound. His tongue is too heavy to allow speech just yet. 

Sirius pushes himself up on his elbows and looks around sluggishly. The sound of someone’s trunk suddenly slamming shut jolts them both. 

“Merlin…’Time is it?” Sirius mutters, meeting Remus’ gaze again, bleary eyed and soft edged. Something Remus could mould; press down into and receive no resistance. For a second, Remus thinks of faceless somebodies who might have seen just-awake Sirius before. Did they realize the same? Did they actually do it? 

Remus takes a steadying breath. 

“Probably late,” he says, voice low. Something in Sirius’ eyes shifts when he speaks, his Adam’s Apple moves as he swallows. 

Sirius nods in response, and turns, reaching for the bed curtains. 

Remus reaches out to stop him; “wait,” he says. 

Sirius turns back to him, questioning. 

Trepidation rises in Remus’ chest. He doesn’t want the others to see them both crawling out of his bed, even still clothed as they are. Fact, it’s worse they’re still clothed—uniforms rumpled and skewed for the night’s sleep they’ve been put through. They never changed into sleep clothes.

But Sirius just wraps his fingers around the wrist of the hand holding on to his arm and squeezes. 

“I fall asleep in James’ bed all the time. It’s fine.” 

Remus says nothing. Something in his gut twists at that, though. The insinuation that falling asleep in his bed is the same as falling asleep in James’ bed. It is. It’s not. 

Sirius pulls open the bed curtain and slips out silently. Remus stays put a few moments longer, letting his eyes make peace with the light that falls inside once the curtains are no longer shut. 

Sirius is lacing his shoes up by the time he climbs out of bed. James and Peter are done getting ready, loitering by Peter’s bed, chatting quietly. 

The thought that James’ bed and his bed are related in Sirius’ mind grinds his teeth together while he’s trying to brush them. 

He ties his tie in short, jerky movements. 

Sirius picks up his bag. They’re all waiting by the door. 

“Alright?” James asks Remus. 

Remus nods. 

The Great Hall is loud. 

Something Remus is faced with every time his senses are somewhat moon affected. Right now, they are much more than _somewhat_. 

The moon is night, like an approaching enemy army. You can stock up for siege, prepare for battle, ready the battlements, but in the end, you’re still just waiting for the nightmare to arrive. 

God, the moon makes him dramatic, doesn’t it? 

But he’s a werewolf. Melodrama is the least he deserves. 

Plus, he’s mates with Sirius Unironically-Stamps-His-Foot-In-Anger Black and James Stubs-His-Toe-And-Can’t-Go-On Potter. As far as drama queens go inside Hogwarts, he ranks no higher than third. 

He eats the five pieces of bacon on his plate he convinced himself was reasonable, plus two off Sirius’, and a sausage link from James’. He can’t quite stomach the bread, or soggy oatmeal. The smell of the cinnamon sprinkled over the others’ is enough to make him sneeze several times into the inside of his arm. 

Sirius is sitting close enough for their shoulders and thighs to brush, and every point of contact is a brand on his skin. 

Thinking about the impending day is almost worse than thinking about the impending night. Sitting through classes on full moon days is a special kind of torture, parried only by the day _after_ the full. Sometimes he gets lucky and the moon falls on a Friday or Saturday. Even then, though, he spends most of his weekend doing homework—though with the added bonus of being wrapped up in bed. 

He’s really not sure whether the days immediately before or after the full are worse. On the one hand, there is aggression. 

Is it better to be angry, or just wholly exhausted? Remus experiences extreme spectrums of both on a monthly basis and couldn’t even offer a comprehensive pro-con list. 

The sun feels hotter than it should as it gets lower and bigger in the sky. 

It’s an unexpectedly warm late November day. Their first class is potions, and the room is stifling for some reason. Remus’ errant dislike of potions is doubled by this fact, and how sweat beads on the back of his neck. He accidentally frightens Peter when he drops one more beetle wing than necessary into their concoction, and Remus snaps at him. Actually snaps. A short, rough noise like a growl ripping out of his throat, accompanied by a harsh glare. Like a dog. 

“Sorry,” Remus mutters miserably after the fact, sticking a spoon into their brew to try and fish the wing out. 

“S’alright,” Peter squeaks. 

“Here, wanna add the sunflower seeds?” He asks to make up for it. 

Peter just shakes his head. 

Tomorrow, the moment will inspire guilt within him. Today, there is only a subdued sort of irritation. _why are you such a doormat, peter?_

On the way out of potions, Sirius, Peter, and James are a step ahead of him, performing theatrical impersonations of the Slytherins they share potions’ with. Remus watches with a sort of detached acknowledgement for the dramatics, and a laser focus on the way Sirius’ hair flips with his exaggerated movements. The way his wrist snaps as he mocks classically-elegant swishes and flicks that he doesn’t realize are extremely similar to his own casting movements. How his clavicle sticks out when he tenses up, and the way his teeth flash when he sneers, and— 

He wonders what he would do with all of this... _this_ if he didn’t have Sirius to focus on. Around him, in his peripheral, colors are bright and leave after images on his retina. Sounds have snaps and pops and vibrations entwined with them that they don’t earlier in the moon cycle. Everything is sharper, and stabs him pointedly. Every year it’s worse. In the summer, it’s _worse_. 

But here, there’s _Sirius_. 

Remus could probably psychoanalyze that. Will psychoanalyze that tomorrow, when he’s lying in bed, a miserable sod. Tomorrow it’ll be creepy. It’ll be laced with guilt and humiliation, like the moments after a private orgasm when you consider whatever taboo fantasy you were having with a sober mind. 

Today, it’s a _need_ that simmers in his throat right above where a soul ought to be. 

Sirius turns, then, and flashes those teeth right at him. Remus must look a certain way, because Sirius’ step falters, and suddenly he’s walking in time with Remus. Their arms brush together. James and Peter are still in front of them, but the sound of them is drivel in the background. Sirius is focused on him now...rather, Sirius is _aware_ of him, because he won’t quite meet his eyes. He reaches up to tuck his hair behind his ears, he bites his lip, shifts on his feet. He’s close enough that his scent fills the air. Remus catches himself before he leans in and buries his nose in Sirius’ hair. 

After lunch, Peter has an essay to finish, and James has a few Quidditch Captain things to get done before practice, leaving Sirius and Remus alone for the free period. 

It’s hot. And that’s annoying. What else is annoying is turning the corner of one of those sunny fucking hallways and seeing Regulus there. 

And, oh, he can feel in the air that this is not one of those times that Sirius passes Regulus in the hall and it’s just tight, and angry, and passive-agressive. No, this is a fully-aggressive encounter abrewing if Remus ever knew one.

Because it’s not just Regulus. 

It’s Regulus, and Barty Crouch Jr., and Avery. 

_this too shall pass_. 

Remus sidles up close to Sirius’ side, insinuating himself between Sirius and Regulus. They walk, and for a moment, Remus deludes himself into thinking they’ll get down the hall without Sirius opening his mouth. That’ll be the day. Because Sirius stops short right next to his brother and the other Slytherins. He turns, and glares. 

“I see the sort you surround yourself with now,” Sirius bites bitterly, which is both petty and unfair and word for word something Bellatrix would’ve said to _Sirius_ before she graduated. Crouch and Avery chortle at Regulus’ side. 

“I see the sort you surround yourself with now,” Regulus responds drily, deadpan, flicking his eyes towards Remus before staring Sirius right in the eye. Which is interesting. He didn’t used to do that. 

Sirius fumes. He goes to take a breath to say something igniting. Remus catches Sirius’ arm, feels the tightened muscles. He squeezes until he feels Sirius’ pulse between the pads of his fingers, and Sirius’ fist relaxes at his side. Maybe Remus has the same magic Sirius does. Maybe some of it was left lingering on his skin. 

“Mind your business,” Regulus continues calmly, and something about his voice sets Sirius tense again. “And I will mind mine.” 

And Regulus gets up from his perch on the windowsill, and simply walks away. 

If Remus feels gutted by the interaction, he can only imagine how Sirius feels. 

Only, Sirius doesn’t do _gutted_ . However, he wears _unfathomable rage_ indescribably well, so, when he takes off at a stomp the opposite way down the hall, Remus tries to keep up. 

They walk for a while, and Remus is sure Sirius has no particular destination in mind; he only means to lose himself in the winding maze of Hogwarts’ halls. Except they won’t get lost, because Remus has the map tucked into his pocket. But he lets himself forget that for now.

Remus gives a try at hand holding. He’s encouraged when Sirius doesn’t yank his limb away. So Remus squeezes Sirius’ hand and grinds his thumb into his knuckles. Sirius squeezes back just as hard, and they continue like that. 

An unfamiliar ghost floats past them, not sparing a glance. 

They exit the castle through a small, unassuming door crammed up between two columns. The bite of a sudden breeze and white sunlight strikes Remus across the face as they slip out atop a stone staircase spiraling down to the ground. A short distance away lies the edge of the forest like a dark curtain. Remus can smell the trees from here. 

Halfway down the stairs, Sirius stops. He turns, looking at Remus like he’s just remembered he’s there. 

“Do you mind?” He asks. 

Remus raises an eyebrow. 

“Going into the forest. We’re going to be spending all night there. Don’t know if you want to venture in during the day when you don’t have to.” 

Remus hadn’t even thought about it. The forest had always been nothing but a safe haven. It meant nights he got to spend running and chasing without hurting anybody instead of tearing himself apart. 

He squeezes Sirius’ hand, still kept safely in his own. 

“I don’t mind.” 

Sirius sits himself down in a small clearing by a felled tree with lichens growing all along the side. Remus sits beside him, ignoring the crack of both knees, and his back. Sirius winces for him, knocking his fist onto the side of his leg gently. He doesn’t say anything, and neither does Sirius. 

It could be easy to feel like they are alone. However, the gentle noises around them and the wide open air, distance stretching and winding between trees, reminds that they are not. Similar, but slightly more sinister, to Hogwarts: you’re never alone in the woods. 

But feeling completely alone and surrounded simultaneously is a feeling both of them are intimately used to. And there are no objections when Remus puts his hand on Sirius’ thigh. Sirius does look up. Inclines his body towards Remus. Covers Remus’ hand with his own and squeezes. 

“We don’t have to, if you don’t feel good,” Sirius says. “I didn’t walk you out here expecting anything.” 

And it’s sweet, and kind, and soft—Just like Remus always knew Sirius was, but also, he was taken aback by whenever they started being _this_ . Whatever _this_ is being. 

But if only Remus ever told Sirius that the moon fucked him up in a lot of ways. The aches it sent, the pangs, temperature and appetite changes, and, increasingly, the heightened libido that didn’t feel fair or _possible_ , since often the frustrating horniness was accompanied by nausea-inducing migraines, and bone-deep aches throughout his body. If only Remus ever told Sirius that, the fatter the moon got, the more he wanted to dig his nails into Sirius’ flesh. Not even sexually—not _all_ the time sexually—but just...to hold him— _have_ him. That was it. That was the word. Remus could hold him any day of the damn month, but on those days when he was _really_ werewolf-juju-magicked up, he wanted to _have_ him. Possessively. Like the Tall, Dark, and Handsome’s of low-brow romance novelas. 

“You always make me feel good,” Remus says quietly, a poor summary of everything that he was thinking. 

And Sirius’ eyes narrow to slits, and flit away from Remus’, because Sirius Black never met a compliment— _sincere_ , sappy-shit compliment—that he didn’t want to fight. 

So he doesn’t look at Remus, but he does lean closer, lets his head fall against his shoulder. He tightens his hold on Remus’ hand, mumbles something defiant incoherently. 

Remus pushes his hand higher up Sirius’ thigh, towards the apex of his crotch, where beneath the fabric of his slacks his cock is beginning to stir. 

On another night, Remus might not have gone through with this. Sirius never came away from an encounter with Regulus without a whole bunch of _Bad Feelings_ getting dredged up. 

He seemed okay enough. Not-Afternoon-Before-A-Full-Moon Remus probably wouldn’t have risked it, though. However, the-Remus-that-is right now throws caution to the wind, and unapologetically pops the button of Sirius’ trousers. 

Sirius groans as Remus gets his hand around his dick, and Remus realizes that Sirius’ mouth is much too far away. He leans in to cover it with his own, using his free hand to catch Sirius’ jaw and tilt his head into it. 

Sirius’ breath hitches as Remus strokes him. Remus feels his own increasingly interested cock twitch in sympathy. 

It’s easy to tongue Sirius’ mouth open, pull him this way and that, stimulate pleasure. Sirius always holds wide-armed welcome for whatever Remus gives. It’s even easier to get drunk off that. 

“What do you want?” He asks against Sirius’ cheek when they pause for breath. He’s still stroking Sirius dry, skimming his hand over his flesh lightly. 

“You,” he replies, chasing his mouth for more kisses. 

“How do you want me?” Remus asks, because if he doesn’t, he’s going to feel like an asshole when he remembers this later. He has enough consciousness for Post-Moon Moony Lupin to know that he _will_ be dissecting every encounter he had today, and yesterday for something to guilt-suicide himself over. 

“Fuck me?” 

_well, when you ask so nicely._

Rearranging is a simple affair. 

The grass is soft, they lay their cloaks out on it. Remus lowers Sirius down atop them, cradling his head with one hand, undoing the buttons of his shirt with the other. The process slowly exposes Sirius’ collarbones, his chest, his stomach. Sirius shudders when Remus brushes his thumb over one pink nipple. 

_i could live here_ , Remus thinks, leaning down to suck a bruise onto Sirius’ throat. 

Then sharp cramps in both of his calves make him hiss in pain. Sirius goes rigid, then hums sympathetically, pressing his hands to Remus’ chest, pushing him back slightly and fixing those wide grey eyes on him. 

“Where does it hurt?” 

Remus just closes his eyes. He doesn’t have an answer. Everything hurts. And tonight it will hurt worse. He never remembers the time he spends as a wolf, but thank Merlin for the blessing of always remembering the transformation. Part of the curse, probably. The snapping of bones and tearing of skin. The way his jaw breaks, his nose. The pressure that rises until he feels like a kettle screaming on the stove until it explodes. 

He remembers, then, that he can’t live here. He could never live here. 

He sighs as the muscles in his left calf release a bit when he works up the wherewithal to flex his toes. He does the same on his right foot, and like that works the muscles. 

“Moony?” Sirius asks, “Baby?” 

Remus opens his eyes. 

“I’m fine,” he reassures. 

Sirius makes a face at him, but he’s not sure what it means. 

“Want to stop?” He asks. 

Remus shakes his head. 

“No.” 

“Me neither.” 

“Good.” 

And then there’s no space for talking at all. 

Remus opens him up slowly, his face pressed to the crook of Sirius’ shoulder, mouthing marks onto his throat, which works under his lips with the sounds Sirius makes. He’s mostly propped up on his knees, spread wide so that his stomach touches the ground. One of Sirius’ hands is intertwined with Remus’, the other is clenched in a tight fist around the black fabric beneath them. His breath hitches, calls him _‘baby’_ in a strained voice when Remus forces a third finger into him. It’s more than enough, but Remus never said no to a good time when his inhibitions were so lowered, and fingering Sirius to a gasping mess is one of the finer pleasures of his life. 

“ _Fuck_ , _you’re killin’ me_ …” Sirius mutters absently into the cloaks beneath them. 

_no, but i could._

Remus shudders, and pulls his fingers out, sliding them gently up Sirius’ back just to remind himself that he can, and presses sweeter kisses to the nape of his neck. 

Sirius hitches his legs up higher, a clear invitation. 

Remus slips his hands down his skin again to grab the convenient handholds that are Sirius’ hips. He releases Sirius with one hand to align his cock with his hole. 

Remus’ legs are shaking after his previous cramps, but that’s easily ignorable as he pushes the head of his cock against Sirius’ hole. Sirius makes a strained nose as he opens underneath him. Remus eases inside him with small motions, holding his hip with one hand, stroking his cock slowly with the other, using the excess lube from the spell cast between them. _god damn._

They fuck lazily—where else do they have to be? _School?_ —hips dragging against each others’. Remus’ chest ends up flush to Sirius’ back, one hand fisted in his hair keeping his head up so Remus can hear all his noises. 

Sirius groans and stretches one of his arms out, hand reaching for the soft clovers and grass they’re lying on, fingers curling into the weeds and the dirt. Remus presses his cheek to Sirius’, and removes one hand from Sirius’ hips to reach out and curl his fingers over Sirius’, fingertips digging into the malleable ground alongside his. 

Sirius sighs, like there’s no better feeling. Remus shifts, spreads his legs wider on either side of Sirius’ own, and doubles his efforts into something rewarding. Sirius cries out with each sharp thrust that glances off his prostate, clenches brutally until he can’t anymore.

It’s only a matter of time and dedication now. They’ve done this enough that Remus knows when Sirius is getting close. It’s when his moans start getting longer, mouth open. His hips start rolling back in shorter, almost frantic thrusts. His brow furrows, like this is something he has to concentrate on. 

Remus tightens his grip on Sirius’ hip, and pushes him down harder, ruts harder, fuck the nuances of pleasure, his only goal now is to get them both _there_. He sinks his teeth into Sirius' shoulder blade, and the sound Sirius makes in response is guttural as he comes. 

For a few seconds before the drop off the peak, Sirius is electric. He shouts, grinds his hips harder, reaches back to dig his nails into Remus’ shoulder, urges harder thrusts. And then he slows down, like hitting still water after a rapid fall. 

He can tell he’s overwhelming him now, as Sirius gets his elbow underneath himself just to bury his face in his hand and tremble. Remus fucks him through his orgasm, and moans as he finds his own, heightened by the way Sirius’ hole contracts around him. 

“ _Fuck!_ ” He shouts, louder than he means too. He grinds his hips into Sirius’, pushing him hard into the ground beneath them. One of Remus’ hands lets go of Sirius’ hip to grab a handful of his ass, spreading him wide just so Remus can get that millimetre deeper. 

He collapses atop Sirius when the rush has died down into something feasible, burying him beneath himself like a grave. He can feel Sirius’ heartbeat through his back, fluttering dangerously. He listens to it, and the sounds of his breathing. Makes sure he’s not crushing him. 

Sirius pulls his hand out from underneath them, and finds Remus’ just to drag it back under, close to his chest, and press his lips to his knuckles. 

When Remus looks up, he laughs, loud and sharp. 

Sirius tosses his head up at the noise, looking for whatever prompted the outburst. Remus’ quickly looks at him to see his reaction. Sirius blinks several times, and then cranes his neck to look over his shoulder and all around them, where a thicket of white clovers, daisies, and creeping buttercups have bloomed. The flowers bump up against each other, stems tangled together for how many there are. The weeds surround them in a vaguely circular shape, about ten feet in diameter. 

Remus leans down to breath against Sirius’ neck, grinning slightly still. He nibbles momentarily on the shell of Sirius’ ear before whispering: 

“You reckon they’d rehouse us to Hufflepuff if they knew daisies and buttercups sprouted when we fucked?” 

Sirius drops his head, but Remus can still see the high flush on his cheekbones as he grumbles, pretending to be annoyed. 

“Mm, don’t worry Pads, we can tell them we made much more punk rock flowers bloom with the passion of our lovemaking. Black nightshades, belladonna, hemlock…” Remus draws off. 

Sirius raises his head again, giving Remus a mouthful of his hair in his effort to look back and glare at him. Remus snickers. Sirius huffs, “ _bastard,_ ” under his breath, and then starts squirming. Remus rises to his hands and knees to allow Sirius the room to turn over onto his back underneath him. Remus pushes his hair off Sirius’ face and neck before Sirius has the chance to himself. When Remus can tear his eyes off Sirius’ gorgeous flushed face, he glances up at the flowers again, smiling at the sight of them. He arches up and reaches forward, plucking a perfect white and yellow daisy from the ground before settling back down. Sirius pulls his legs up, and out from underneath Remus to hook over his hips. Remus twirls the little daisy between his fingers in front of his and Sirius’ faces. 

“They are very pretty,” he says, “and to think, you’re shit at herbology!” 

Sirius smirks, and takes the flower from Remus, reaching up to tuck the stem behind Remus’ ear. Remus kisses his hand as it’s leaving. He rests his own palm against Sirius’ cheek, holding him still just so that he can _look_ at him. 

“You’re magical…” he murmurs. 

Sirius grins a bit up at him, cocking an eyebrow. 

“I’m aware.” 

Remus leans down, brushes their shoes together, touches his forehead to Sirius’ gently. Distantly, he’s aware that the daisy falls from behind his ear. 

“Not like that, not like…” Remus breathes out heavily, drawing his other hand down Sirius’ side. “You’re _mythical_ ,’ he says. 

Sirius’ breath hitches. Remus lets his hand drop from Sirius’ cheek to his jaw, and tugs his mouth open with his thumb on his lower lip, and kisses him. Sirius is susceptible to anything right now, soft and pliant against everything Remus could give him, and Remus is ravenous. His blood pumps hotter and heavier, making his cock stir again against Sirius’ hip. If he wanted, he could spread already sore thighs again—not that he’d need too, they’re already slung around his waist—and fuck him on his back just to see his face better this time around. Sirius would let him. Sirius would love it. 

Remus doesn’t, because it’s mean. Because they’re still in the middle of the woods, and they’ll have to get up and hike back to school in a minute, and later, they’ll hike down to the shack, and Sirius will transform himself into a dog and run himself ragged in the woods with Remus again until dawn. Getting fucked twice in twenty minutes with barely adequate lubrication did not lend itself favorably to such activities. 

_but, god, sirius would let him._

And that’s enough to abate the urge. 

Remus pulls back, mouth hot and wet and tasting of Sirius. Sirius looks up at him, panting, waiting, expectant. Remus kisses his nose, a balm to the intensity of their previous kiss, and rolls over onto his back next to him. 

Sirius’ hands twitch up by his head, and he stares starry eyed up at the canvas of trees above them. 

“ _Fuck_ , Remus,” Sirius pants. 

“You already did,” Remus breathes. 

Sirius laughs softly. 

But, really. Fuck Not-Afternoon-Before-The-Full-Moon Remus if he would ever try to dissuade _that_. 

Unfortunately, sex does not solve everything. 

Correction: It doesn’t solve everything for _long_. 

Credit where credit’s due—Remus feels pretty fantastic for about an hour. 

Then the tension starts to seep back in.The aches come out from their oxytocin induced hibernation and remember that they are supposed to be rehearsing for showtime tonight.

James and Sirius sneak food up to the dorm from dinner, slipping out from underneath the cloak with plates balanced in the crooks of their arms. They all crowd onto the same bed, having a picnic between them while James and Sirius pick apart Peter’s essay—usually Remus proofreads them, but the words on the page are swimming—while Peter grumbles and turns red and crosses his arms huffily at intervals. Remus knows that most of it is a show for his sake. He also knows he’ll never be able to repay any of them for this. 

The world goes blurry after the sun goes down. 

He doesn’t need much focus, though. 

It’s all a routine by now. 

Up until they get to the shack, and the others start to shift around nervously, looking at each other, looking at Remus, before finally they shift into their animagus forms. Remus never remembers much after that. Except how much it hurts. 

He’s been asked to explain _how much it hurts_ a few times before. His mum, his dad, Madam Pomfrey, James, Sirius, Peter, Professor McGonagall. It’s a reasonable question. 

He can’t explain how unreasonable his answer is. The real answer, anyway. Not the one he peddles. 

_it’s like getting turned inside-out._

_it’s like getting hit by a train._

_it’s like there’s something in my chest, under my skin, and it will break anything it has to to claw its way out._

it’s like all of your bones breaking, shifting, shortening, and elongating to support the frame of a beast much bigger than you are. it’s like your pores and cuticles and gums splitting open to make room for tufts of thick hair, ragged claws, and fanged teeth. It’s like your spine bursting open at the end. It’s like your back straining to push you into the preferred pose for a quadruped. It’s like the world’s exploded all around you, and you’re nothing but exposed tissue and nerves. 

And then it’s like doing it all again when the moon goes down. 

Remus wakes up and smells nothing but sweat and piss. One of which is significantly more pungent than the other. 

But he’s not too worried about it. He’s having a panic attack. 

His throat hurts, and he clutches at his chest, maybe that will make the pounding stop. 

“ _Ah! Hah...Hah!_ ” He groans, turning over from his side onto his knees, pressing his head down against the floor between his forearms. 

“Remus!” 

A voice says, and a hand lands on his back, right next to his spine. He finches under it, a sob wracking through him for good measure. The hand retreats hastily. 

“Remus, it’s alright, it’s alright,” 

He snarls at the empty fucking words. 

“It’s over. It’s done, baby, you’re done.” 

_no i’m not_. 

Remus bawls. 

Two hours later he has coffee, and a croissant, and the whole thing is all but forgotten. Save for the crinkle of the bandages under his shirt everytime he moves, and the dark bruises shadowing all of their eyes. 

Besides the physical evidence, you wouldn’t know how deeply and thoroughly Remus had fallen apart the night before. And then again, hours later. 

The Marauders are chattering and laughing, lounging around in the common room, waiting for the class period to end so lunch could begin. 

As far as moons went, this one wasn’t the worst. His eyes were drooping and his brain felt soggy, but he wasn’t lightheaded in that way that made him feel two seconds from collapse. He’ll probably go to class after lunch. 

A hand reaches towards his face, but he’s too tired to flinch about it. 

Sirius’ fingertips press underneath his ear, pushing away the hair that lays there. Sirius shows him how they come away bloody. 

Remus hums an acknowledgement, and sighs, making a move to get up, go find a cloth and a bandaid somewhere. 

Sirius sets a hand on his shoulder and sits beside him. He lifts his hand up again, pressing the end of his sleeve to the cut. 

“Someone go get a wet flannel?” Sirius asks the room. 

James, stifling a yawn, heads into the bathroom and then returns with the item, handing over the damp flannel to Sirius instead of Remus, even though he lifted his hand for it. 

Sirius presses the flannel up to the cut, holding his head steady with his free hand, fingertips massaging lightly against his scalp. Remus closes his eyes and surrenders himself to it. 

“Merlin, you’re worse than mum, mate,” James snorts, having a seat on his own bed and leaning back on his hands. 

“Coming from the one who issues daily _hydration reminders_ ,” Sirius retorts. 

James sputters indignantly. 

“Excuse me, hydration is punk rock!” 

“I’ve got it, Padfoot,” Remus says, lifting a hand to take the flannel from him, leaning away. 

He blinks himself more awake, an easier task now that excellent fingers aren’t scratching pleasantly at his scalp. 

Sirius, for his part, only hesitates for a moment, then moves away, muttering something about having a shower. 

When Remus looks away, he’s surprised to be met with Peter’s scrutinizing gaze. Yesterday, Remus might’ve snapped at him again. Most days, he’d just turn a bit red and look away. All he manages now is the slight raising of an eyebrow. 

Peter shakes his head, but Remus doesn’t miss the way his eyes flick toward the bathroom door on their way elsewhere. Luckily, James, having started digging through a pile of clothes on the floor for a tie, misses the exchange and how Remus keeps looking at Peter, considering. 

_that might be a problem._

Remus lowers the bloody cloth down to his lap. Looking at it, paired with the sting of the cut growing sharper into his consciousness, helps to put things into perspective. He’s already been saddled with one of the worst curses on Earth. He lets his eyes fall shut again, just for a second. He deserves that much, doesn’t he? Just a few moments of quiet. 

_peter’s a doormat anyway._


End file.
